


Kicks

by inoubliable



Series: Skin&Earth [7]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Back Seat Makeouts, Boys In Love, Car Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 15:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12729546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is sixteen years old. Richie gets a car and they make good use of it.--The car is a piece of junk, he tells everyone, sounding very proud about it. The bumper is rusted and the paint is peeling and the tires are bald. There is a huge scratch down the passenger side. It squeals horribly when it starts and trembles violently when Richie touches the brakes.Richie loves it.Eddie... doesn't, until he does.





	Kicks

**Author's Note:**

> "Tell me 'bout the last time you got free.  
> Laughed 'til your sides split, cut your knees.  
> Do you want to take, do you wanna take a trip with me?"  
> -[Kicks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1mXvqkhx_b0), Lights

Eddie Kaspbrak is sixteen years old.

It's supposed to be a big year, Sweet Sixteen and all that, but so far, nothing has changed. He hasn't even started driving, unlike all of his friends, except for Beverly who seems to have no interest in it and is more than happy to let the others ferry her around. Ben has his license, but he doesn't have a car. Mike inherited a reliable old Ford truck from his grandfather, and Stan's parents bought him a Buick the day he turned sixteen. Bill is about two paychecks away from buying his own vehicle. Surprise of all surprises, he's not the only Loser working for one. 

At the beginning of the year, Richie got a job at the comic shop downtown. He only works weekends, and he doesn't work very hard, reading comics more often than he stocks them, but it's money. It's real money. He stops buying candy at the drugstore and starts stealing cigarettes more often than he purchases them and he keeps his extra cash in a little box hidden underneath his bed.

It takes him nearly eight months, but he buys a car.

The car is a piece of junk, he tells everyone, sounding very proud about it. The bumper is rusted and the paint is peeling and the tires are bald. There is a huge scratch down the passenger side. It squeals horribly when it starts and trembles violently when Richie touches the brakes.

Richie loves it.

Eddie... doesn't, until he does.

At first, he refuses to get near it, because all he can think of are dust mites and tetanus and whatever that mysterious stain is in the back seat.

But then it's 7:46 on a Thursday night, and Eddie's mom is being overbearing, even more so than usual. She has checked on him six different times and reminded him to take six different medications, and Eddie feels smothered and anxious, and even his inhaler doesn't make his chest feel less tight.

Richie doesn't even ask what's wrong when Eddie phones him, he just says "I'll be right there."

It only takes twelve minutes for Richie to show up, for Richie's car to slow to a squeaky stop where Eddie is waiting on the corner outside. It's not as ugly in the dark. Eddie can almost pretend that the chipped paint and the constellation of dents are all just shadows.

When Eddie climbs cautiously inside, Richie leans across the center console and greets him with a kiss, and Eddie has been kissing Richie for a full year now, but it never gets old.

Richie eases the car down the street and out of the neighborhood. It refuses to accelerate quickly, despite Richie's best efforts, and gives a god-awful whine when Richie jams his foot down. Eddie laughs when Richie mutters darkly, slapping an impatient hand against the steering wheel. His chest feels looser.

The car is not nearly as horrible as Eddie expects. Richie is not very clean by nature but the mess is controlled, and it even smells a little bit like cleaning supplies underneath the overwhelming stench of cigarettes. He wonders if Richie sprayed air freshener just for him. The thought makes him smile, and he realizes his standards are getting dangerously low.

It's been raining on and off all day, but as they drive out of town onto a long stretch of road that would eventually take them all the way to Portland, the sky opens up and it really starts to pour. The rain patters loudly against the roof of the car, and the wind almost swerves them off the road. Richie keeps both hands on the wheel, which is unusual for him, and then finally says "Fuck it," as he eases the car onto the side of the road, slapping on his hazards. There aren't any streetlights this far from town, and everyone else seems to have the good sense to keep out of the rain, because the road is empty. It's just Eddie and Richie and the radio, which Richie keeps turned up to drown out the whine of the engine.

Between the crooning voice of the radio host and the pounding of the rain, Eddie almost can't hear the slick sound of his mouth against Richie's when he leans in for another kiss. Richie responds immediately, like he was waiting for it, and his big hand cradles the back of Eddie's head, keeping their lips firmly attached. Eddie couldn't pull away if he wanted to.

He doesn't want to.

He tries to lean closer, but the gearshift digs into his ribs and he makes a pained noise. Richie lets go of him instantly. "No, just..." He gestures at the uncomfortable way he's hunched over, and Richie looks contemplative for a few seconds before he's climbing through the tiny space between the seats and into the back of the car. He's too tall to do it gracefully, and his hair gets a little fluffed up and static-y where it rubs against the soft felt roof, but when he settles down he looks so damned pleased with himself that Eddie feels compelled to follow him, like Richie is drawing him into his orbit by the sheer force of attraction.

Richie sits in the direct center of the bench seat and spreads his legs wide, not really leaving Eddie much room on either side of him. It's clear he means for Eddie to straddle his lap, especially when he pats his own thighs and says, "Got a seat for you, Eds. Best seat in the house." Eddie rolls his eyes but complies, a knee braced on either side of Richie's hips.

Richie's eyes look almost black in the darkness, and his hair is a shaggy shadow around his face. He needs a haircut, badly. Eddie pushes some of it back, tucking it behind the stems of Richie's glasses. He looks a little goofy with his hair behind his ears.

The thing about Richie is he isn't beautiful, not really. Not conventionally. Richie is mostly just interesting, like he's the focal point of some art piece and the background is blurred around him, unimportant. Looking at Richie is an experience, total and full-body. Just when Eddie thinks he's seen all there is to see, he finds something new and wonderful, like the way one of Richie's ears is a little higher up than the other, knocking his glasses askew by an almost unnoticeable degree.

"You just gonna stare at me all night?" Richie asks, voice soft, caught between a challenge and a request.

They kiss then, and then they kiss again. Richie's body runs hot, and before long Eddie starts to sweat, along his hairline and down his back. His palms feel a little slick, gliding along Richie's skin where he has them cupped around Richie's face. He usually hates to sweat, but he can make an exception for this.

He makes a lot of exceptions for Richie Tozier.

Richie can't seem to decide what to do with his hands. They're in Eddie's hair, then they're on Eddie's neck, then he has them curled around Eddie's hips, long fingers teasing the inch of skin exposed where Eddie's shirt has ridden up.

"You could touch me," Eddie says against Richie's mouth, a hot exhalation of sound. "Please touch me."

Richie makes a wounded noise and slides his hand fully underneath Eddie's shirt, palm flat against Eddie's back, and it isn't what Eddie meant but the firm pressure of it is good enough.

It isn't the first time they've done this. It's just the first time they've done it outside of Eddie's bedroom. It's the first time they haven't had to listen for the creak of stairs under Sonia Kaspbrak's weight. It's the first time Eddie hasn't had to bite his hand or a pillow or Richie's shoulder to keep absolutely, perfectly silent.

He moans, then, loud in the silence, as Richie's mouth presses insistently against his pulsepoint. He fists his hands into Richie's shirt, hips flexing without thought. Richie inhales sharply when their hips meet.

Richie is unusually quiet when they do this, like he's finally realized his mouth is useful for more than spouting off. But he's still, always and forever, a trashmouth. "Fuck," he hisses, more than once, his mouth falling away from Eddie's throat when Eddie grinds down again. Eddie wants to feel everything, which is a pretty miserable feeling, because he can't feel much of anything through their jeans and the backseat is too cramped for him to do anything about it. "Jesus fuck, Eds, we've got time, we've got all night. Slow down, sweetheart, go slow."

Eddie doesn't want to go slow. Eddie isn't actually sure what all he wants, but he knows he wants to hear Richie sound just like that, cracked open and throaty. He shoves his hips down again and Richie gives a shaky exhale, gripping his waist but not holding him still.

He starts a slow rhythm, and it doesn't feel as good as it could because it's the frustrating friction of his briefs that he's rubbing against, not Richie, but it's good, it's good, it's good enough. Richie's face is red even in the dark and his mouth is open like it always is, but different, somehow. Like he's so awed and shocked and pleased that he can't manage to shut it. Eddie shivers.

The windows are fogged up. It's hot, now, and Eddie knows Richie has to be burning up, trapped between a hoodie and Eddie's body, but there isn't enough room to undress, and Eddie doesn't even really want to, because the first time he gets Richie out of his clothes, he wants it to be so much more than this.

The thought of that, the too-hot thought of stripping Richie down makes Eddie's skin itch, makes him lose a little bit of higher functioning. He sits back on Richie's knees, takes one of Richie's hands in both of his own, and slides it to the front of his jeans. Richie's eyes are wide and dark, and he's mumbling quiet expletives to himself, and his fingers are shaking when he fumbles Eddie's jeans open and dips his hand inside.

Eddie's breathing goes sharp and he gives a high-pitched _oh_ , shocked at how much _more_ he suddenly feels. Richie strokes him clumsily, more from the awkward angle than lack of experience, and stares up at him like he's having a religious experience, like Eddie is the single greatest thing he's ever seen. Eddie has to close his eyes, because Richie looks so _grateful_ , so singularly pleased about his hand on Eddie's dick.

Eddie gets a little lost in it, sunk so deep into the pleasure of Richie's hand and his uneven breathing and the soft encouragements he gives – _"That's it, doll, you're so perfect, just let me-"_ \- that it's almost a surprise when he comes. He shudders through it, grasping at Richie's shoulders, gasping Richie's name. Richie's hips jerk, and so does his hand, and he echoes Eddie's noise, shoving his face against the side of Eddie's neck. Eddie realizes distantly that Richie came, too, just from touching him, and the little thrill of it makes him twitch in Richie's hand.

"You owe me new underwear," Richie mutters against his jaw, sliding his hand out of Eddie's jeans, and Eddie can't help but laugh. That is, until Richie rubs his hand clean on the fabric of the seat and Eddie is suddenly reminded of all the mysterious stains his knees are digging into on either side of Richie's hips, and he throws himself back into the front seat so fast and so violently he almost kicks Richie in the gut. Richie snickers and climbs out of the backseat through the door like a normal person, digging his crumpled cigarettes out of his pocket as he goes. He doesn't light one until he's out of the car, and he doesn't slide behind the steering wheel until he has stubbed it out. He still stinks like ash and nicotine, but it's not as bad as him blowing smoke in Eddie's face, and Eddie can't help but feel a little pleased that Richie considers him.

Like he said. Low standards.

Except Richie doesn't feel like a low standard. Richie feels like some kind of bar that everyone else will fail to meet for the rest of Eddie's life. Richie has ruined him for anyone else. Eddie's not that worried about it. It doesn't matter. He never plans to live without Richie.

When Richie starts to ease the car back onto the road, Eddie briefly considers asking him not to turn around. Considers asking him to keep driving. They could get out of Derry, get out of Maine even, just the two of them.

But then Eddie thinks about his friends, thinks about his life. Thinks about how Richie's car probably wouldn't even make it to the next service station. He says nothing, turning up the radio instead. He watches Richie's face, watches him mouth the words, watches the wind whip his hair wild where the window is cranked down an inch. It's one of those moments Eddie knows he will remember for the rest of his life: Richie, his face still a little red, illuminated by a passing streetlight, striking and animated and looking every bit like everything Eddie has ever wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> LISTEN, Y'ALL. Kicks is one of my favorite songs on the album and I wanted to write something beautiful and masterful and poignant, but then Lights announced a 2018 tour, and I had to post something to celebrate. What better way to celebrate than with some backseat kissing, am I right?
> 
> It's more important than ever for you guys to listen to the Skin & Earth album, fall in love with Lights, and join me and my wife at the Feb 20 Atlanta show!


End file.
